Woke up to the silence of green trees in the backyard. No bird sounds, just a garbage truck in the distance. I’m staying with friends near Berkeley. Last night a string of lights at the horizon, “that’s the Golden Gate Bridge,” my host whispered so as not to wake her partner, “it’s painted red not gold.”
My dreams centered around one long dinner party during which i mostly wept as guests kept coming and going. “What brings you here?” someone asked. “To discern my spiritual path.” Just before waking I watched a magnum-sized bottle of deep-green olive oil slowly emptying all over the table. As I tried to stand it upright, the oil flow turned into a river. Nobody else seemed troubled by it all.
The sun is streaming through the Japanese paper window shades, not hot by California standards, but very pleasant for this visitor from the north: still, the central heating intermittently blows warm air into my room. Outside, a lemon tree bears plump fruit in shades of green and yellow. Footsteps somewhere in the house: the scent of coffee.